"What has _paradise_ to say to it?
Do you imagine that I have been in _paradise_ since I left you here ?" "I do not know, I am sure!" reply I, rather confused, and childishly stirring the stiff red mud with the end of my boot, "I believe _they_ mostly do; Algy does--" then afraid of drawing down the vial of his wrath on me a second time for my scandal-mongering propensities, I go on quickly; "Were you talking to yourself as you came down the drive?
I heard your voice as if in conversation.

I sometimes talk to myself when I am by myself, quite loud." "Do you?
I do not think I do; at least I am not aware of it; I was talking to Zephine." "Why did not she come to the gate, then ?" inquire I, tartly; "did she know I was there?
did not she want to see me ?" "I do not know; I did not ask her." I look up at him in strong surprise.

We are in the park now--our own unpeopled, silent park, where none but the deer can see us; and yet he has not offered me the smallest caress; not once has he called me "Nancy;" he, to whom hitherto my homely name has appeared so sweet.

It is only an hour and three-quarters since I parted from him, and yet in that short space an indisputable shade--a change that exits not only in my imagination, but one that no most careless, superficial eye could avoid seeing--has come over him.

Face, manner, even gait, are all altered, I think of Algy--Algy as he used to be, our jovial pet and playfellow, Algy as he now is, soured, sulky, unloving, his very beauty dimmed by discontent and passion.